


The Woes of an Unhappy King

by Beeker



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, F/M, Infidelity, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-28 12:52:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2733239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beeker/pseuds/Beeker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair is very unhappy in his new role as King of Ferelden. During a brief visit to Vigil's Keep he learns what his life could have been like, had he remained with the Grey Wardens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Responsibility

**Author's Note:**

> From the perspective of a romanced, unhardened, dark ritual doing King Alistair who rules alone. I like to think that, regardless of player choice, Alistair unintentionally and unknowingly hardens himself along the way.
> 
> Alistair's eventual Queen is NOT Anora. She is an unnamed woman of high nobility.

Being king meant responsibility.

 

Alistair hadn't been deluded enough to believe being king would be a life full of kissing babies and attending parties with fancy displays of stinky cheese. Sure, there would be long days filled with tiresome travel. Days overloaded with boring council meetings and equally boring social gatherings. Stressful days of presiding over the royal court. Perhaps even days of fighting and bloodshed, should the situation present itself. And there was that whole pesky.....marriage and babies.....thing.

He had been so utterly unprepared for all of it.

The destruction? Ending a civil war and slaying the Archdemon had been the easy part. Truly. The Fifth Blight had been the shortest in recorded history. Regardless, the destruction that had been left behind seemed limitless. Months later and still citizens flocked to the palace seeking aid. Alistair had the opportunity to see much of it firsthand during his recent travels – sick, blackened and barren lands, buildings crumbling, families broken, children crying.

The decisions? Why had he not considered a king made decisions? Alistair struggled every morning with what soap to use (sandalwood or honeysuckle), what to wear (he preferred blues, though greens did accent his eyes) or what to eat (and which cheese would accompany it best). He was not qualified to make insignificant decisions at the start of his day, let alone ones that impacted the entirety of his country.

The loneliness? Alistair had been lonely most of his lifetime. It wasn't until joining the Grey Wardens that he had felt what it meant to have purpose and a place of one's own. His time with them, albeit short and blanketed with betrayal, could now only be remembered fondly. Afterward, among the motley crew assembled to defend Ferelden, Alistair had been surprised to find that same sense of purpose and belonging. He missed that. Maker, he missed that.

He missed _her._

Suddenly his chest hurt and it was very hard to breathe.

“Your Majesty?”

“Er...yes?” Alistair focused his attention back to conversation at hand. He forced himself to take a deep breath and smile.

“We were just saying how beautiful the Queen looks this evening,” reported one of the lesser nobles crowded around him. The others fervently nodded and murmured in agreement.

“She is....lovely,” His eyes drifted across the room to where his blushing bride stood, radiant in a sea of white Orlesian silk. “I am a... lucky man...”

He was a fool.


	2. Confidence

Being king meant confidence.

 

Especially now, as servants stripped off his elaborate armor in preparation for his wedding night.

“I think I can take it from here,” he snapped, when one of the young stewards reached for the waistband of this small-clothes. “Leave me.”

They hurried to oblige, exchanging sly grins with one another.

Alistair couldn't begrudge their excitement when, soon after, his Queen entered the bedchamber. He knew many a man (and, undoubtedly, many a woman) in Thedas who would gladly trade their life's wages to stand in his place. She was breathtaking. Her hair, pale gold in the soft candlelight, fell free in waves down her back. Her robe, made of the same silk as her bridal gown, clung desperately to her feminine curves. Her smile was tentative and her eyes hopeful. Such beauty. Such vulnerability.

The motions felt rehearsed, as if he himself were on the outside looking in, dictating “a gentle touch here” or “a quick kiss there”. His body, caught up in the cold calculation of loveless love-making, was not responding well. In to say, not at all.

“Relax,” she breathed, leading him to the ceremonial bed by the hand.

He settled himself amongst the assortment of pillows, face blushing as crimson as the sheets, and was thankful his new wife had the good grace not to laugh at his unfortunate predicament. Alistair should have expected as much. She had been declared the fairest maiden in all of Thedas, chosen by Bann Teagan himself. Alistair recalled the enthusiasm and diligence Teagan had displayed when tasked with finding him a suitable wife – he would have to repay it somehow.

She began to touch him. Hands glided curiously across his most private area, lips and tongue soon joining in the exploration. In time his body reacted as any man's with a pulse might, growing harder and aching with each featherlight stroke. Alistair closed his eyes tight, mind drifting back to another time and another touch.

_The smell of a campfire. Fingers, shaking with a mixture of nervousness and anticipation, fumbled with the laces of his breeches. The air, thick with want and longing. Her. Her lips pressed against his, soft and sweet._

_“Are you certain?” she had whispered._

_He could only nod, heart racing, and kissed her again._

The weight on the bed shifted as the Queen straddled him. One hand clutched at his shoulder while the other guided him into her. Alistair reached out blindly to grasp at her hips, lifting himself up to take her fully. She set a pace that was methodical and he quickly matched in kind.

_The smoothness of her skin, the wetness between her thighs, her low moan as he slipped slowly inside. A tangle of misplaced limbs. Foreheads bumped together. It was over before it began, far from perfect but perfect in the end. Her. He breathed in her scent, held her close and silently thanked the Maker for putting her on this earth. He vowed never to let her go._

When Alistair finally found release, it was _her_ name on his lips.

His beautiful wife, delicate and patient and kind, cried herself to sleep that night.


	3. Sacrifice

Being king meant sacrifice.

 

Solona.

_A good, clean break was needed. Immediately, before either became too attached. That was what being a king demanded. He was duty bound and honor driven. It was better that way, for both their sakes, he reasoned. He told her as much. Told her so in front of their companions, his “uncles” and even that one-eyed washerwoman with the toothless grin that made him shudder. Needing to explain in earnest, wanting her to understand, he followed up his intentions by rambling about death and wives and babies and more death._

_She understood, she had said. She was not of nobility – a tainted warden and a mage with obligations of her own. Insisted he would make a good king. Her eyes had shone bright with unshed tears and pain, cheeks flushed and lips curved into a frown. Oh, how his heart had hurt at the sight. Very nearly he had shouted “Our duties be damned!”, scooping her into his arms and stealing away into the night to a place without blights and responsibilities._

Solona.

_After Riordan had fallen, Alistair professed a desire to be the one to slay the Archdemon. He considered it his duty as king and protector of Ferelden. To be brutally honest, it was due in part to the lack of faith he held in the “ritual” Morrigan had concocted. He was certain it would serve as one of the most embarrassing and uncomfortable moments in his lifetime. He was not certain, however, that it would do much else, least of all shield the woman he loved from death. A world without her in it was a world that held no place for him._

_The dragon was grounded. Liliana and the remaining army of elves closed in from all sides, arrows raining down on the wretched beast. Wynne caught his eye and nodded. Alistair felt the cool, tickling sensation of magic washing over him. His aches lessened and his nerves calmed. It was time._

Solona.

_Covered in ash and darkspawn blood, robes tattered, she turned to look at him. “Alistair.”_

“ _My love,” he choked out. “I...”_  

“ _I know,” she said quietly, placing a soothing hand on his chest. Sadness filled her smile. “Please forgive me.”_

_Alistair felt the harsh burn of magic washing over him then, stiffening his limbs and rooting him to the very spot on which he stood. His chest tightened painfully. His mouth refused to grant the words of protest escape. How dare she use her magic on him! How dare she stop him from saving her!_

“ _In war, victory,” Fists clenched at her sides. “In peace, vigilance,” She faced their enemy with a fierce look of determination. “In death....sacrifice.”_

The parchment in front of him was covered in splatters of ink and one word, written over and over again in messy, looping script: Solona.

“Maker, damn it!” Alistair cried, tossing his quill onto the table. He crumbled the parchment into a tight ball and threw it across the room in rage. “Damn it!”

Defeated, he buried his face in his hands and sighed.

“Your Majesty?”

Lifting his head, Alistair blinked in surprise as the faces of the council seated around the meeting table slowly came into focus. Time and space had eluded him once again.

“I...er....what were we...discussing?”

“Orlesian Grey Wardens have made their way to Vigil's Keep. There are also a handful of potential Ferelden recruits I'm told,” Arl Eamon cleared his throat and eyed Alistair warily. “The Warden Commander is due to arrive within three days time. We were discussing that, given the circumstances, an official royal welcome might be in order.”

“Given the circumstances? She ended a blight! We owe her our _lives_ , not a pretty welcome banner and a big cake!”

“Alistair...”

“I will do it. I will go.”

“Her Majesty has already agreed to attend the...festivities,” Bann Teagan announced quickly, shooting his brother a hard-pressed glance. “I will accompany her and...”

“No.”

“I will go,” The Queen insisted from her place at Alistair's side. “There are far more important matters that demand the attention of the King.”

“No,” Alistair met the eyes of each representative in turn, save the Queen. He still couldn't look at her directly after....that night. “I will go.”

 


	4. Diplomacy

Being king meant diplomacy.

 

They had traveled halfway from Amaranthine to Vigil's Keep when a messenger stumbled toward them. “Darkspawn! Darkspawn are overrunning the keep!”

Alistair's stomach twisted into a painful knot. “What of the Warden Commander?”

“I...I didn't see her, your Majesty. I...”

He nodded curtly and urged his mount into a gallop, ignoring the objections and gasps of shock from his guard. Alistair had a plan. He would ride into the keep, a knight in shining armor, to slaughter the darkspawn horde and rescue his lady love. It was a solid plan. Ladies loved being rescued as much as they loved knights in shinning armor. He could do that.

Alistair couldn't, in fact, do that. When he arrived at the keep, nearly sick with panic and worry, he found it to be overwhelmingly empty of darkspawn. Well, that wasn't particularly true. The grounds were positively overflowing with Alistair's favorite variety of darkspawn. The very dead kind.

“I've sent word to the Warden Commander. She and her companions should reach us shortly,” the stocky Amaranthine guard had announced as he opened the gate to allow them passage.

She was fine. Of course she was! The lady was a formidable fighter. The lady hadn't waited around for a knight to save her. The lady had slain an Archdemon and survived. What were a few more darkspawn?

Alistair's heart hammered in his chest as he waited. He removed his gauntlets and helm, passing them to one of his guardsmen. He wanted to see her without obstruction, to touch her if he could. Was that inappropriate? Touching a king was allowed, should he want it. A handshake? No. Too formal. A hug? No. Too informal. He could take her delicate hand in his and kiss it gently. Yes. That was something kings did, wasn't it? At least the exceedingly charming ones.

Since their brief exchange at his coronation, six months of Alistair's existence had been spent imagining this moment. During the last three days in particular, he had played out every possible scenario both in waking and in dreams. His favorites, by far, were the ones that involved a reunion of passionate kisses and murmured promises of forever. Sometimes she would slap him or beat his chest with her fists, only to be calmed by wit and a lopsided grin which, of course, ended in passionate kisses. Far more common, however, were visions of a broken, war-torn Solona. Man hating, small-clothes burning, freedom fighter Solona. Engaged to a dashing Antivan merchant prince Solona. Rage demon abomination Solona (Alistair would never admit that one out loud, even to the Maker himself).

Somehow he hadn't envisioned it would take place in the pouring rain, among darkspawn corpses and …. Templars? What were they doing here? Alistair vaguely recalled passing a group in his haste to the keep. What business could they have with Grey Wardens? Unless...

He detected her presence even before someone shouted “The Commander approaches!” by the sick, churning feeling in his stomach and the goosebumps spreading across his skin. That such a beautiful woman should be indistinguishable from a filthy darkspawn was, in his opinion, a crime against humanity. Alistair held his breath.

Solona strode toward him, head held high and her features set in a state of neutrality – as was the way of the Wardens. She wasn't wearing typical mage robes, nor those befit of a Warden Commander. The armor contained buckles, chainmail and even plating, seamlessly woven together without appearing bulky or gaudy. All at once she reminded Alistair of Duncan, whether by design or by coincidence, and he was taken back by the sentiment.

“My king,” she said, dropping to a knee in front of him and bowing her head. Her king. Alistair rather liked the sound of that.

What he didn't like was her bent knee or blank expression, as if she were some commoner he passed on the street. If anyone had right to ignore etiquette, much like the feathered mage and dwarf (Oghren?!) were doing, it would be Solona. Hero of Ferelden. Commander of the Grey. Arlessa of Amaranthine. Maker, how did he even address her now?

Before Alistair could decide, the keep's seneschal launched into a detailed explanation of the dire situation. Darkspawn dead. Orlesian Wardens dead, missing or presumed captured and fated to be darkspawn snacks. Solona and Alistair were, yet again, the only surviving Grey Wardens in all of Ferelden.

To top off the whole affair, the Templars were demanding the mage be handed over to them. He was a “dangerous apostate” they claimed, having escaped the tower or looked cross-eyed at the Knight-Commander or forgotten to return his library books. Alistair didn't know and he didn't much care.

“No,” Solona cried, stepping between the mage and templar. “You will not take him. I have use of him here. I invoke the Right of Conscription.”

“I will allow it,” Alistair stated quickly, when the templars began to protest. He would consent to the conscription of a thousand mages, if it were her desire. He longed to see the Grand Cleric's face when _that_ message was delivered.

There was a laundry list of items that warranted the Commander's immediate assistance – a keep in need of stabilizing, a joining ritual, something ominous awaiting judgment in the basement holding cells – and the seneschal, Varel, was eager for them to take their leave.

“I hoped...” Eamon had prepared a speech for him, one singing the praises of the Grey Wardens and offering royal congratulations and well-wishes in their future endeavors. It seemed foolish to recite it now, among such chaos and death. Alistair realized rather suddenly that, so long as he wore the crown, he wished to be a man of action, not simply one of hollow words and unfulfilled promises. The Wardens would have his support and they would have it freely. “I hoped to be of some aid. My men can help secure the grounds, tend to the wounded and see to the dead. I can be of use with the joining, or any other tasks you see fit.”

“Your Majesty, that is most gracious,” Varel did not attempt to mask his surprise. His eyes shifted to meet Solona's.

She paused, just long enough for Alistair to fear he'd been too forward, then nodded her approval.

“I'm afraid we have no easy task ahead of us, your Majesty. Lodging and rations will be provided, of course, for the duration of your stay and...”

“They march tomorrow, at midday. I do not wish to delay the king longer than is necessary.”

“My lady, surely...”

“Midday.”

Alistair could live with that.


	5. Willpower

Being king meant willpower.

 

Oghren flopped down across from Alistair and belched loudly. He fixed the king with a narrowed stare. “Who pissed in your ale?”

“Ale? I thought this _was_ piss,” he retorted, offering the dwarf a half-hearted smile as he lifted the heavy mug up to his lips.

“That's the spirit!” Oghren bellowed cheerfully, drinking deeply from his own mug.

“So... what do you think of...” Alistair nodded his head in the general direction of Anders.

“What? The mage?”

“Yes.”

“Eh, he's not bad for a mage.”

“That's it?”

“Huh?”

“No other...opinions?”

Oghren shrugged. “Seen one mage you seen 'em all. All feathers and skirts and...” he belched again, “fireballs. The boss likes him enough.”

That she did. Anders was there at her elbow while she poured over important letters and maps, hovering so close their shoulders nearly touched. He was at her heels when she made her way around the keep, becoming acquainted with her new home and staff. He was the one to bring her an ale and convince her away from her duties at mealtime. Since awakening from the joining, Anders had been utilizing every opportunity to swoop down on her and Solona didn't seem to mind one bit. Swooping was bad – she, of all people, should know that!

Alistair swallowed with some difficulty as he watched them sitting together now. They were deep in conversation, Anders talking animatedly with his hands about Maker only knew what, and Solona was...smiling. And laughing? Oh, this was worse than he thought.

Even Zevran, with all his shameless flirtations, had never sat so close, never found so many reasons to touch her, never made Alistair see so much red – and that was saying something. It took everyone ounce of energy he possessed to keep from stabbing the mage through the heart with a spoon.

“Jealous, huh?”

“I...what...no!”

“You keep telling yourself that, kid.”

Alistair would, but the dwarf needn't know it. He glanced over to where Nathaniel was seated alone, brooding over a steaming bowl of stew, in an attempt to clear his mind of tableware-laced revenge fantasies. “What of him? Can't say I saw that one coming.”

“Who now?”

“The Howe.”

“How. Now. Who?”

“Just how drunk are you?”

“Not drunk enough.”

Alistair sighed. He knew the feeling.


	6. Courage

Being king meant courage.

 

Alistair raised his hand to knock, but just as his knuckles grazed the worn wooden door, he dropped it quickly back to his side. He turned on his heel and marched down the hall to the private quarters he had been assigned, the ones intended for guests of import, furious with himself.

No. He couldn't do this.

Instead he found himself outside the Warden Commander's door again, for what seemed like the hundredth time this hour, hand poised and ready to knock.

No. He would do this. He needed to do this.

Running a hand through his hair, Alistair stared intently at the closed door and pondered what _this_ even was. An apology? Closure? Something more?

He took a deep breath, attempted to knock again and failed. He was going to be sick.

“Alistair?”

Heart jumping into his throat and letting out a high-pitched squeak that was anything but manly, Alistair spun around.

Solona stood a few feet away, arms crossed, studying him. “Is everything ok?”

“No. Yes! Nothing's the matter. I'm fine.”

He knew she didn't believe him. She didn't say as much, just nodded and waited expectantly.

“I...wanted to say hello,” Alistair searched her eyes, silently pleading, wanting to find _something_ there _-_ some glimmer of hope, desire, even anger. He found nothing. Maker, how did she do it? How did she remain so insufferably calm and devoid of feelings?

A long, awkward silence stretched between them.

“Right. I won't keep you. Goodnight,” Alistair forced his legs to move, to carry him back to the safety of his quarters with what little dignity he had left. He had only taken a few steps when she called out to him.

“Wait.”

“Yes?”

“I have something for you.”

“For me?”

Solona pushed open the door to her quarters and motioned for him to follow before disappearing inside.

Alistair stood in the threshold, watching her. The room was spacious but sparsely furnished. A canopied bed on one side, an old oak desk, two cushioned armchairs in front a roaring fireplace.

Solona made her way over to a large dressing table in a far corner. The surface was covered in an odd assortment of trinkets and bobbles – thick tomes, precious gems, bottles of expensive perfumes, magical runes – crates of Antivan brandy, Ravani wines and Orzamar ales were stacked underneath. All manner of elaborate robes and gowns were haphazardly thrown over a nearby chair. The floor was littered with weaponry, satchels full of jewelry and more pairs of boots than any one person could wear in a life time.

“Maker's breath!” he cried. “I know you always had a thing for gift giving, but this is ridiculous even by your standards. Are you planning to start handing them out in the streets of Amaranthine?”

“Tokens of appreciation to the Hero of Ferelden,” she told him, digging around inside a box. “Surely, as king, you receive your fair share of gifts.”

“Does fealty and an army of soldiers count?”

“Why wouldn't they?”

“Then yes. I have received many gifts.”

“Ah, here it is,” Solona held up a small leather pouch in triumph. She crossed the room and opened it, letting the contents, a silver griffon statuette only a few inches in height, fall into his outstretched hand. Despite its size, the figurine was intricately detailed and shimmered in the firelight. “I didn't think you had one like it.”

“I don't,” Alistair cleared his throat, voice suddenly thick with emotion. “I...thank you.”

“You're welcome,” a ghost of a smile flickered on her lips. “You won't believe what I had to do to get it.”

“Oh?”

It was that simple. A thoughtful gift had opened the floodgates and allowed for easy conversation to flow. Soon they were curled in the armchairs by the fire, sharing a bottle of Orlesian honeywine, recounting their adventures (and misadventures) of the last half year.

Solona had traveled extensively before coming to the keep. She and Liliana had spent several weeks in Orlais, attending fancy masked parties with plenty of stinky cheese. They had even been granted a private audience with the Empress herself. The trip to Antiva with Zevran had ended in the deaths of nearly fifty crows and, thankfully, no pending engagement to a merchant prince. Most interesting were her tales of journeys to Sehron to meet Sten's qunari brethren and pigeon hunting with Shale across Tevinter.

Alistair opted to air on the side of caution with his own stories, tending to share humorous ones that poked fun of his inexperience with kingly duty or royal mannerisms. He tiptoed around his general unhappiness and most certainly avoided mentioning his wife.

It didn't last long.

“Tell me about her.”

“Who?”

“The Queen.”

Another one of those long, awkward silences engulfed them.

“She is ...” Alistair swallowed a sip of honeywine. “Clever. Gentle. Soft-spoken.”

“And beautiful?”

“Well, uh...yes. A bit dull though. And rather serious – never laughs at any of my jokes.”

She gazed into the depths of the fire, seemingly satisfied with his answer. “Do you ever wish things could have turned out...differently?”

“Yes.” Every minute of every day, he wanted to add.

“Me too.”

“Solona...”

“I'm worried for you!” she cried suddenly, hands wringing together nervously in her lap. “That ritual. There must be a price to be paid.”

All at once the emotional walls Solona had built crumbled before Alistair's eyes. She was the scared young woman, torn from the only life she had known, he first met at Ostagar. She was the newly joined warden, overwhelmed and unprepared herself, assuring him they could face any challenge so long as they faced it together. She was the fearless leader - staring down their betrayer Loghain in one-on-one combat, charging high dragons, resisting the temptations of demons – who mourned each life taken no matter how warranted.

“Then it is mine to pay.”

“No!” Solona shook her head firmly, a single tear rolling down her cheek. “Whatever it is, I should be the one to suffer for it. I don't want this uncertainty hanging over your head. I never should have asked you to do it. I...I should have died...I wish I had died on that tower!”

“Don't say that!” Alistair was on his feet, taking her by the hands and pulling her up. His arms curled around her in a tight embrace.

She hesitated for a moment, then buried her face in his shoulder.

 

 


	7. Passion

Being king meant passion.

 

His fingers tangled in her hair to deepen the kiss, an arm slipping around her waist to press their lower bodies together. She was soft and sweet, just as Alistair remembered.

A minute passed, or perhaps even an hour, while Alistair bared his soul in that single kiss. He attempted to convey feelings for which he had no words – his deep regret at having chosen duty over love, the overwhelming fear that she was lost to him forever, the burning desire ignited in the core of his being by the mere recollection of her face.

Pulling away to gaze up at him, Solona's eyes flickered with silent understanding and affection. “Are you certain?” she whispered, a hand gently cupping his cheek.

He managed a nod, heart thumping as madly in his chest as it had their first time, and kissed her again.

Alistair wanted to take it slow. He wanted to relive those stolen nights at the party camp among the trees and stars. He wanted to leisurely reacquaint himself with every inch of her smooth skin – to stroke at the center of her heat until she cried out his name and begged for him to fill her.

Solona's mouth left his, trailing fervent kisses along his neck and jaw. Alistair's eyes fluttered shut when she found his earlobe, groaning in pleasure when she playfully nipped at the flesh with her teeth.

He wanted to...

Her delicate fingers tugged on his trousers, slipping the fabric over his hips and down his thighs inch by agonizing inch until...

All remaining rational thought melted away, replaced instead by a need so primal, so raw, that Alistair ached and yearned in ways and places he never dreamed possible. He had to have her now. Now, before she changed her mind. Before someone interrupted with papers to be signed or word of another Archdemon needing to be slain.

Solona cried out as he spun her around, all but throwing her face down onto the threadbare rug in front of the fire. He pushed her robe up to her waist, spreading her legs to position himself between, praising the Maker she had seen fit to change out of that blasted battlemage attire. Alistair pawed at her underclothes, frantic to remove them, and found immense satisfaction in the sound the silken material made as he tore it away. Solona cried out again from the boldness of his action and yet again, louder, when he took her roughly from behind without warning.

She was warm and wet with each entrance, her body's walls gripping his throbbing hardness tightly with each exit. He pushed himself in deeper as the pleasure began to mount, starting low in his groin and spreading throughout his limbs. Harder he pressed, seeking a sweet release that was so very close yet still just outside his grasp.

Alistair gripped the curve of her hips firmly to steady himself, jagged fingernails digging into the sensitive flesh of her thighs. He would leave marks, scratches and bruises at best, and relished in the idea. His thrusts became savage at the notion, frenzied and more erratic, like a wild animal or ancient barbarian claiming a territory as his own. He wished the world could see them - know that Solona was his and his alone.

His body shuddered violently as Alistair finally reached his climax. He called out her name, panting and shirt soaked through with sweat, a hot white light flashing before his eyes when his seed erupted inside her.

 _Her_.

He had taken from her without giving anything in return. He had treated her like a piece of property. Alistair felt guilty and ashamed and so unbelievably turned on by the prospect of doing it all over again. And again. And again.

No.

He would sit back and let her have her way with him. The sooner the better. He had a Warden's stamina after all.

 

 

*********

 

 

For the first time since his joining Alistair was not plagued by nightmares of Archdemons, Broodmothers or darkspawn hordes. He slept peacefully and soundly - “like the stone”, the dwarves might say.

As the first rays of the rising sun crept through the windows of the still silent keep, his eyes fluttered open. It took a moment for the room to come into focus and for his mind to register the unfamiliar surroundings. Drapery and banners of blue and white. A rickety wooden bed. A warm body curled up next to his, head resting comfortably on his chest. He smiled.

It was as if he had spent the last six months in a fog, going about the day to day motions of being king in an effort to prevent his heartache from consuming him. The fog had cleared and Alistair felt alive. He felt invigorated. He felt....content? Yes. Content was an accurate description.

Alistair had chosen to wear the royal crown out of a sense of duty. Duty to his estranged father, his country and the Maker. He had been so certain becoming king had been the Maker's will, a divine path and plan put into motion long before his birth. He knew the right choice was not always the easiest. But had he made the right choice? Alistair wondered now if he had been too hasty in his decision. Kings were not made from good intentions and royal blood alone, he understood that now. His time in this world was limited. The darkspawn taint would see to that. Did he need to suffer through his remaining days filling a role that he was not groomed for and no longer even desired? Along the way had he deviated from the Maker's one true path, the path of that had led him to a sense of belonging and love?

Pounding on the room door startled him from his revere.

“Commander!”

Solona bolted upright, grasping at the thin gray blanket to cover her indecency and stared at the closed door, voice thick with sleep. “Yes? What is it?”

“I'm sorry to disturb at this early hour,” Varel, of course. “But I'm afraid I must. The King is missing.”

“Missing?” Solona was fully awake now, eyes widening and mouth hanging slightly open. She glanced down at Alistair, brows knitted together in confusion.

He simply shrugged. This was the first time he had been made aware he was, in fact, missing.

“Yes, my lady. His Majesty sent his private guard away last evening, demanding under penalty of death that they retire to the barracks for a night's rest before the march back to Denerim. Upon...”

“Penalty of death?!”

Oh. _That_.

“Yes, my lady. Upon returning to their post this morning they found the King's chamber empty. A search of the keep and grounds has turned up no lead. The guards fear for the King's safety. I daresay, they fear the wrath of Arl Eamon more. The troops are preparing to leave for Amaranthine as we speak.”

“Call off the search,” Solona narrowed her eyes at Alistair. “The King is with me. We are...busy...discussing darkspawn....strategies. Very important business.”

She was a terrible liar. He loved that about her.


End file.
